The Club
by Clarice07
Summary: Mrs. Summers welcomes Offseth, the new Handmaid of her somber house. There is much more to the barren wives than meets the eye. Beneath the holiness of perfect buns and clean ironed clothes lies complete savagery.


**1\. THE CAT MASK**

We had a club. A secret one. It would happen in the afternoons, when our husbands were away at work. It was quite strange. They would walk away with their serious faces and serious suitcases and we would accompany them to the door, very wifely. We would even sometimes kiss their cheeks, a light wicked smile on the corner of our lips. Then we would put on our blue holy dresses, buckle our high heels and construct our symmetric buns, clean and perfect and completely aware of the kind of savage beasts we were.

Then, the cars. Each one of us would delicately enter the backseat of their husband's car and tell the name of a place; a park, a house, a sewing store. And the driver would obey, the unaware guardian of heaven politely leading us to the gates of hell. Not even my driver knew what I did those afternoons - and we had very few secrets between us. But a woman must do what a woman must do, and whenever I arrived at the location, I had only to discreetly find the door, draw the key from between my breasts and enter, closing it tightly behind me.

Not even the wives knew who each other were, and that was for own protection, even though I doubt any would ever tell on one another, because it would mean death. Then, once in the secret underground halls, it was time for the masks. Mine was the face of a white cat, with big ears, tiny black holes for the eyes and blushed cheeks. Some liked to take their flashlights, I had heard. I, on the other hand, prefered to walk in the dark, hearing my heels click on the wet rocks as I crossed the narrow suffocating corridor. It was in those tunnels that I became someone else - each step was a step away from that wretched world of Handmaids and Marthas and Men. Each step gave me more confidence, filled me with the expectation of delight.

Then, on the First Hall, where all tunnels connected, we would meet each other. Usually there would be five or six of us, every single one wearing a different mask. We would neither speak nor gesture, only stand there looking clean and sacred, waiting before the big round wooden doors.

When they would open, it was to reveal a very pleasant room decorated in red sofas and red cushions. We would sit. Some would even drink a glass of water or have a sip of tea. As clever women, we knew what we desired most was not men, but the idea of them, so there was no prostitution involved. Prostitution was for them - our terrible disgusting husbands, who were sure we did not know of Jezebels. Our method was safer and cleaner and perfect. When the bell rang, it meant they were ready.

We would go inside another set of doors, and there it was. Six wooden chairs set in line in front of the high bed, which was really a stage. We would sit perfectly, rest our hands upon our laps and wait once more.

Through a back door they accessed the room. They didn't wear masks, not them. I had no idea how these two had been chosen or who they were. Here's who they were: They were the only two people in this godforsaken place who I did not want and would not help get out. I needed them. I needed a way to be beastial. Most people scrub away sin - I needed to scrub away holiness.

They were used to each other. You'd think they were actual lovers. Before the first time, I had to know she _wanted_ that. They told me he was as good for her as he was for us. And I believed it. There was no tension there, and no imposition. He would kiss her, she would smile, they would slowly undress each other, and we would watch, perfectly still. Live porn. Now there was something our husbands would never think about. It was not sufficient for them to watch, they had to be a part of it. At this point I'd honestly rather watch. Sex had this whole bad feeling about it now. I remembered the first night in that new world, the first Handmaid, the first Offseth. I will never forget the look in her eyes. I didn't even want children. I wouldn't want to put another man in the world, let alone another woman. I held her wrists as he got ready in the bathroom, and that was the moment I was brave enough to decide, looking at her. So I bowed a little and whispered in her ear: 'I'm going to help you get out of here'.

And I did.

But there was always the next one. She'd come in tomorrow. And there was always, despite it all, the danger of her telling on you. There was always the Eye.

So I did not want to be touched. Not that my husband would ever do so. I loathed men and their craving palms, their ridiculous thrusts, their caveman grunts. But I needed sex, I needed the presence of it, the smell of it. So there we were. And there they were, fucking. One wouldn't even hear our breaths quickening or our loud heartbeats - we were discreet even in that. We knew these people and we knew their bodies and their moans. It was perfect. Tenderly rough. He'd always lean over her, press her body with his instead of standing up and fucking her just with his dick. He would kiss and kiss and kiss her mouth and her breasts and her stomach and all else, and I'd remember the feeling before all that, before Seth, - sometimes even with him.

I don't know about the other women, but the thing that really got me was when they would sigh in each other's mouth. _That_ was intimacy, that share of breath. They were both very beautiful. I think the other wives simply erased the girl and pictured themselves with _him_. I didn't. I did not like to pay mind to my body, or to my existence to be quite honest. I'd rather just look at them, no children no nothing. We knew she was barren like the rest of us. It was sex for the sake of sex, and there was nothing sharp about it, just warm. Like laying under the sun on the beach. That's how it felt - warm and wet like the beach.

I remember looking at her once and wondering if she was faking for us. As if she had read my mind, she looked at me and I saw the answer in her eyes. It was a "fuck you". She was happy to show us all evil uptight bitches how good it felt to be properly fucked. She couldn't see it, but I smiled underneath the mask.

Lately, I had been paying more attention to his grunts and thrusts. They were lovely, tender and desperate at the same time. Low, paced. There was not rage there, as there is in most men. There was just hunger and the need to savour it all and miss not a single drop. He wouldn't look at us. Not that he couldn't, he just wouldn't. And that was fine. Funnily enough, that was what I imagined at night. Not his body - his eyes.

There he was, broad shoulders and white clove skin, and there she was, blonde and pink-lipped, and there we were, masked and quiet and miserable and there I was imagining eyes. This is the truth: we craved for sex, but we longed for affection, for any kind of minuscule fondness.

And then it was over.

And then they would stand there, panting, looking like greek sculptures, for a while. And then they would leave, and then we would walk out to the room again, aching, and then to the halls again, sobbing, and then up to the world, trembling, and then to the cars and to our houses and to our beds and to our minds.


End file.
